An Unexpected Realisation
by BlueMoonOnTheRise
Summary: Faced with certain death, a mocking consulting criminal, and a very loyal flatmate, Sherlock makes a surprising discovery. Set during the final scenes of TGG. Oneshot.


**I've written a fair few Sherlock stories now, but haven't put any up, so I thought, when I wrote this one, it was probably time to start. I am quite pleased with it, I think, so I would appreciate some feedback.**

**Spoilers for **_**The Great Game. **_**Big ones. **

**Essentially the final scene in the pool, in which Sherlock makes a surprising deduction.**

A jolt of shock ran through his body as it happened: a lunge, and John was hanging onto Moriarty for all he was worth, teeth gritted, face set, and he was speaking, breathing hard.

"Run, Sherlock!" he shouted, arms still locked around the other man. Their eyes met, and he thought John attempted a smile, but before he could be sure, he was addressing Moriarty again. "Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, and we both go up," he told him. His breathing was heavy, but other than that he was quite composed, sure of himself.

It was then that Sherlock realised he hadn't moved.

"Good – good!" the dark haired man was exclaiming, squirming a little in John's grip, but keeping his sarcastic, superior manner nonetheless. Sherlock felt a stab of something – he was unsure what it was – and vaguely registered that his tone was more mocking than admiring.

And still, he hadn't moved. Hadn't even dropped the gun.

"I can see why you like having him around," Moriarty continued, still with the faint undertone of sarcasm that was grating on Sherlock's nerves, and he didn't know why.

And still, _still_ he hadn't moved. Not an inch. John had said run.

"But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets."

There was that stab of the unidentifiable emotion again, stronger, more painful. He could hear John's voice echoing around his head: 'Run, Sherlock!" over and over. His feet stayed resolutely still, his hand steady on the gun.

Why? Come on: think, think, _think._

Moriarty was speaking again, and Sherlock abandoned the idea of escape altogether, focussing on the two men in front of him.

"But I'm afraid you've rather shown your hand, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock deduced what was causing the look of horror on one man's face, and delight on the other in less than a second, and watched as John released the consulting criminal – God, that was still brilliant – looking defeated. He felt a small pang at this, and mentally shook himself. He was being ridiculous.

It was only a few minutes later, after Moriarty had left, and he found himself running towards his flatmate as fast as he could go, and ripping that hateful coat off him, throwing it as far away from John as possible, that he realised. Really realised. He hated Moriarty: not for killing the old woman, not for _any_ of his crimes, and not even for insinuating that he was cleverer than Sherlock – actually, no, he hated him for that too – but for mocking the man who was currently staggering around in shock claiming that he was fine. He realised properly why he had not run. Yes, a large part of it _was _due to the fact that Moriarty really was very interesting: and it seemed such a waste to let him be blown up – he hadn't found out nearly as much as he would like about him, and with the man still at large, interesting cases were guaranteed quite regularly, because he was a fantastic criminal. And Sherlock needed the work. But it was more than that. Had most people told him to run, save himself, and let the criminal be blown up – even at the expense of their own life – he would have gone. He would have started to go, anyway, even if he'd then decided Moriarty was too interesting to be torn in tiny pieces, and turned back and refused. But it hadn't been anybody, it had been John, and he'd stayed rooted to the spot. He'd been unable to move, and he hadn't understood why, not until now. Even Moriarty had known before him. That was probably the most annoying thing. True, he'd known that he quite liked John: he'd referred to him as his friend on a few occasions, and he'd surprised himself by not being overly annoyed by the man's presence, constantly, since they'd been sharing the flat. He hadn't given the matter much conscious thought – it was, after all, irrelevant to his work up until now – but he supposed he had started to like the doctor as a kind of necessity. He needed help with the rent, he'd found a man willing to put up with his eccentricities, and it would be illogical to deliberately find reason to dislike him. John was perfectly pleasant, and Sherlock had managed to put up with him, aided by additional qualities like being a good shot. He'd never considered that this friendship, on his part, extended past a vehicle to pay the rent.

Well, he was considering it now, and it was terrifying.

He liked John Watson. Really, genuinely liked him. It was the most obvious thing in the world, and he, Sherlock Holmes, had missed it! He remembered the fear that had coursed through him when John appeared, decked out in explosives, and wondered how he'd missed it. Well, in fairness, his mind had been on more important things.

No, no. That was not an excuse for _him_.

He glanced over at John, who had finally conceded defeat, and was leaning against the wall, hyperventilating a little, and felt he should try and express some of what he'd just realised. He didn't know where to start.

Now, that was a new feeling.

"That – thing, that you did – that you offered to do," he begun, realising as he spoke that he sounded a little less composed than normal. He stopped, swallowed, and looked away. "That was – good."

He breathed in, and looked over at John. His breathing, he noted, was returning to normal, and he had sat up infinitesimally. Good. He thought over his last words, and decided that was enough expression of feeling for today.

It occurred to him, as John regained himself a little, and managed to joke about ripping clothes off in darkened swimming pools, that with this realisation of having made a proper friend, the danger John was in had increased massively. Sherlock couldn't keep an eye on him constantly, and it occurred to him that it might be necessary to ask for Mycroft's particular brand of assistance. He couldn't think of anything he'd like to do less.

He'd barely had time to consider several things he would like to do more: including taking a bath in acid, and putting his own severed limbs in the fridge, when Moriarty appeared, and announced his renewed resolution to kill them. Dull. He'd thought this one was original.

Well, at least now he didn't have to ask Mycroft for anything.


End file.
